


Seven Sprigs of Mistletoe

by thepopeisdope



Series: 12 Days of Christmas [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mistletoe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-08 01:43:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5478656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They work a case that has no leads, until suddenly it does. And Dean doesn’t like what they have to do to solve it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Sprigs of Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the wonderful [Arianna](http://ariwillowtwist.tumblr.com/).

Dean flops backward onto the center of one of the two beds in the motel room, sighing in relief at the pressure it removes from his feet. He’s spent so much time standing that his feet are now swollen, his shoes uncomfortably tight. He only just has the energy to hook a finger into the knot of his tie and tug it loose, slightly lessening that feeling of being strangled which makes the whole _fed_ get-up that much worse.

He and Sam have been snooping around town for three days now, putting up with a damn near sickening amount of small-town holiday cheer, and they’re no closer to finding their ghost now than they were when they arrived. Hell, at this point, they still aren’t even sure their culprit _is_ a ghost. It’s only the age of the town and how far back the deaths seem to date that had them believing as such in the first place, but in this day and age? It could be just about anything.

Sam enters the motel room only moments after Dean, and he scowls when he sees the position his brother has taken up. “Dean, come on. I know you’re pissy, but we can’t just call it quits. Not while this town could still be in danger.”

Dean rolls his eyes. The two of them have hashed this out often enough over the last couple of days that he already knows what the rest of Sam’s argument is going to be. “Yeah, yeah, and nobody wants to be killed by Casper right before Christmas, _I know_. But we haven’t found _anything_ , Sam. Half the vics didn’t even have any evidence of having known each other.”

Which is true, unfortunately. The kills themselves follow a strict pattern—there’s always two victims, and they’re always found hanged on the twenty-second of December wherever they had been when they had gone to sleep the previous night—but the victims themselves range from close friends to casual acquaintances to total strangers. Sometimes they were of the same sex, and other times the opposite, with absolutely no discernible pattern to either variance.

Same routine. Same day. Every twenty years, dating back to around the founding of the town, more than two hundred years previously. And of course—because why not?—this year is year twenty, and today is the twenty-first. They only have a few hours left to figure this out.

The pattern so far and the facts aren’t very reassuring. Dean shakes his head and carries on his rant, because now he’s on a roll, “What about _our_ Christmas, huh? We may not get paid vacation days, but that doesn’t mean we can’t take time to ourselves every now and then.”

“You can drown yourself in all the spiked eggnog you want when we’re done here,” Sam reiterates harshly. After a moment his expression softens, bringing Dean to suspect that he’s realizing just how tough he’s being. “Please,” he continues, sitting down at the room’s small table in front of his laptop. “Let’s just save these people, and then we can call it quits for the rest of the year.”

Dean almost makes a biting retort about ‘the rest of the year’ being a goddamn _week_ , but he figures it isn’t worth his effort and nods along instead. He may bitch about wanting a break, but he wouldn’t _really_ leave a whole town to fend for itself against a centuries-old haunting. Contrary to popular belief, he isn’t a total monster.

A sudden fluttering of wings draws both of the brothers’ attentions before anything more can be said on the subject. Cas stands next to the foot of the bed Dean is sprawled across, looking as haggard as ever in his rumpled trench coat and suit. “Hello, Dean. Sam.”

Sam mumbles a greeting in return, and Dean raises one of his hands from the bed and twists it in a facsimile of a wave. “Hey, Cas. What’s up, man?”

Cas, unsurprisingly, frowns. “Nothing is ‘up’,” he responds dryly, making Dean chuckle. “I have no obligations in Heaven at this time, so I wanted to… ‘check in’.”

Everything about that sounds stilted and awkward, but Dean finds it endearing anyway. He knows the angel’s trying, at least, and that’s what matters.

“You know, Cas,” Sam starts from behind his laptop, because god forbid he let the guy be in the room for _ten goddamn seconds_ before the conversation turns to work, “we’re actually pretty lost on this case. Maybe you could help us out?”

“Of course,” Cas agrees easily. He shifts his weight a bit, like he isn’t sure whether he should stay near Dean or move toward Sam. In the end, he decides to stay in place. “What’s happening?”

Sam quickly fills him in, running through the same information that he and Dean have been obsessing over for days. It sounds just as impossible to puzzle together hearing it spoken afresh as it has every other time, so Dean cuts off the end of Sam’s retelling with an exaggerated sigh.

“Basically, Cas, we don’t have shit,” he says, not bothering to hide his annoyance at that fact. He lifts his head to better be able to look at the angel from his current position, unwilling to sit in a more dignified manner _just_ yet. “Is there any chance you can just mojo it away so we can all just move on?”

Cas tilts his head in consideration for a moment, then shakes it. “I don’t believe so. I was unable to sense any particular malignant forces upon arrival in this town, which means if there is a haunting, its source will have to be discovered and disposed of the traditional way.”

Dean groans and slams his head back against the bed. “Fuck. That’s _so_ not what I wanted to hear.”

Even though Dean can’t see him, staring at the ceiling as he is, he knows Sam rolls his eyes. He can practically hear it in Sam’s voice when he asks Cas, “Why can’t you sense it? Shouldn’t you be able to, if that’s what we’re up against?”

Cas heaves a sigh, and lowers himself to sit on the foot of the bed next to one of Dean’s semi-spread legs. The angel doesn’t acknowledge it in any way, but it still makes Dean overly self-aware, and so he bolts upright, earning a strange look from his brother. Cas, meanwhile, carries on, oblivious. “Some spirits are tied to this plane for a certain purpose,” he explains. “From what you have so far put together about the victims, I would say that the ghost chose its victims on the basis there was some requirement it wanted them to fill, and so far, none of them have met it and so have been killed.”

Dean nods as he takes this in, more of the puzzle revealing itself in his mind. “So what you’re saying is that maybe to get the ghost to stop, we need to make sure two random people in town, what, fulfill Casper’s wishlist? Check the last item off his bucket list, maybe?”

“Perhaps,” Cas replies, a little too vaguely for Dean’s liking. “It’s impossible to know more without knowing who the ghost once was, or more about the victims’ activities on the final days of their lives. The victims are hanged, you said? Is it safe to assume you have already looked into deaths by hanging in the town’s history? A spirit as the result of a suicide, perhaps?”

“We looked, there’s nothing in the records,” Sam says. He’s quiet for a moment, then makes a weird, thoughtful sound in the back of his throat. “Maybe that means—”

A staccato knock on the motel room door prevents him from finishing that thought, and they all pause.

Out of habit, Dean leaps up from the bed to take point, grabbing his gun from where he had previously left it on the table beside the bed and tucking it into the back of his pants for quick access should he need it. He exchanges a pointed look with Sam before he cracks the door open.

As it turns out, none of his concern was necessary. The short, middle-aged woman on the other side of the door, clad in a pink button-up shirt and pressed khakis, is hardly threatening. Far from it, in fact. He vaguely remembers asking her some questions at some point in the last few days, but he can’t be sure of her name. He thinks it might be Sharon.

“Agent Mercury!” Maybe-Sharon exclaims, beaming up at Dean. “I’m glad I was able to find you—I hope you don’t mind? I know this is a bit late, but I thought I would ask if you have any plans this evening?”

Dean splutters for a moment, completely taken off-guard by the question. Of all the things he may have expected when he opened the door, this is not it. “I—Um. Why?”

Sharon—the more he thinks about it, the more certain Dean is that that _is_ her name—only smiles wider, and reaches to pull a mint-green flyer out of her purse, which she promptly hands to him. “Every year since our town’s founding, we hold a Christmas gala in the rec hall. Or—” She chuckles softly to herself, like she stumbled upon some inside joke. “—technically it’s a _solstice_ gala, because some members of our city council were worried that ‘Christmas’ wasn’t inclusive enough. Though why they thought ‘solstice’ was better, I’ll never know.”

Dean looks down at the flyer with a furrowed brow. The page reads:

**240 th Annual Solstice Gala**

**December the 21 st, 7pm**

**Recreation Hall**

**Black-Tie Attire Required**

***Couples Only***

It’s the last line that that catches Dean’s attention, above anything else. He points a finger at it, raising an eyebrow at Sharon. He has a feeling he knows what’s happening. “You know that… Uh. Agent May and I…”

Sharon seems to catch his meaning, because her faces flushes bright pink. “Oh! I wasn’t—Or maybe I was. I just—” She pauses and takes a deep breath to regather herself. “Sorry. Well, in any event, I thought it only polite to invite you, seeing as the rest of the town will all be there. Maybe if you have any friends who live nearby, or if anyone special in town has caught your eye? I know my niece, Taylor, never got a date. She’s on the younger side, but I think it would work. I could introduce you, if you’d like?”

Dean gives her a tight smile, trying to ignore the odd sinking feeling in his stomach at the thought of being set up with some stranger for a _gala_ of all things. It doesn’t sound appealing in the slightest, not when there’s someone else who he would rather go with.

That is, if he were going. Which he isn’t. Or if he had the courage to make a move. Which he doesn’t.

“Thank you, Sharon,” he says, silently pleased when she doesn’t suddenly snap because he has her name wrong like he fears, “but I think we’ll both have to decline. It was kind of you to think of us, but we have too much work to do tonight.”

Sharon’s expression dims at the rejection, but she nods in understanding. “That’s not a problem agent. I feel better just knowing that I offered. If you happen to change your mind, know that the door is still open, alright?”

Dean acknowledges this with a nod. He and Sharon exchange a few more pleasantries before she finally says goodbye and leaves, leaving Dean feeling even more exhausted than he had before the interaction. As soon as the door is closed he slumps against it, reveling in the brief silence.

Keyword being _brief_ , of course, because Sam is immediately in his space and snatching the flyer out of his hand to read its contents aloud. Once he’s finished, his eyes go wide. “Dean, don’t you see what this means?”

Dean frowns. “No?”

“Dean. _Two hundred and fortieth annual_. That’s what all of our vics have in common, they all attended this gala on the twenty-first! This is where the ghost is getting its targets!”

Dean scoffs. “Sam, we aren’t going to that gala. Black-tie, couples only? Any of this ringing a bell?”

“Didn’t she say she has a niece?” Sam asks, as though it’s obvious. “You could go with her, and I could provide support from the outside. Cas will help me.”

The sinking feeling in Dean’s stomach returns with a vengeance. He shakes his head. “Not gonna happen, Sam. How old could her niece be? Eighteen, Nineteen? I’m not going to some fancy party with a teenager as my date, case or not. You want to know what happens in there so bad, _you_ track down her niece.”

Sam makes a face. “You’re being ridiculous. Why can’t you just suck it up for one night? It’s a _Christmas party_ , for god’s sake. Whether they call it a gala or not, that sounds right up your alley.”

“I said _no_ , Sam.”

Sam only continues to frown, and for a moment, Dean thinks he’s won, and he’s glad for it.

And then Cas says, “I could go.”

All of Dean’s half-formed thoughts of victory come crashing to a halt. He has to lean to the side to see around Sam’s shoulder to where the angel is still sitting on the bed, but he isn’t sure that _looking_ at Cas is very helpful to his now-scattered emotions.

Castiel, going to a black-tie gala? With some random chick? The thought sits wrong in Dean’s mind, roiling like it’s diseased and refusing to settle.

Sam seems equally surprised, though probably for slightly different reasons. “You want to go to the gala?” he asks. “Even if you have to go with Sharon’s niece?”

Cas hesitates at that, averting his gaze from the Winchesters for a fraction of a second. It happens so fast that Dean almost doesn’t notice, and perhaps wouldn’t have if he didn’t know how to read the angel as well as he does. “If that’s what it takes,” Cas replies neutrally. There’s another brief hesitation. “Or, it may perhaps be more convenient if Dean and I go together. Since the ghost is most likely targeting gala attendants, it would be more beneficial to have two of us on the inside instead of two on the outside.”

Sam blinks. “That’s a good point, actually.” He looks at Dean. “Right?”

“…Right,” Dean says slowly. His eyes are continually drawn to Cas, and he can’t help but ask, “Cas, are you sure you want to go?” He leaves off the _with me_ , but from the look on Cas’ face, he thinks the angel heard it anyway.

“I’m okay with it if you are,” Cas says, each word very obviously chosen carefully. “It’s nothing more than a suggestion.”

Dean stares at him for a long moment, and then finally, he nods.

He tries not to think about the fact that neither he nor Cas even suggested that the angel play Sam’s date for the gala instead of Dean’s.

~

Two hours later finds Dean panicking in the Impala in the parking lot of a small-town rec hall. Sharon wasn’t joking when she said that the whole town was going to be there; he’s seen at least a couple hundred people walk through the building’s main doors in just the ten minutes since he and Cas parked, and with each duo that passed, Dean has felt more and more inadequately prepared.

Eventually, Cas sighs and puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean jumps at the touch, but forces himself not to pull away, to meet the angel’s eyes. The corners of Cas’ mouth twitch up in a smile. “We don’t have to do this,” he says, not for the first time. They both know it isn’t true, though. There isn’t enough time left before the ghost makes its next kills. “You and Sam could find an alternative.”

Dean shakes his head, steeling himself. “No, we got this. Just, um. Do you remember our cover story?”

Cas rolls his eyes, the gesture surprisingly human. “Yes, Dean, I remember. It’s hardly complicated.”

“Humor me.”

“We’ve been dating for a year and a half,” he says exasperatedly, reciting from their previous conversation, “and I live nearby and was already planning on surprising you by arriving today. We met through your work at the FBI, and if anyone asks, it was a classified scenario that we could both get in trouble for discussing.” He gives Dean a pointed look. “Are you satisfied?”

“Yeah. Let’s do this.” Without further ado, Dean gets out of the Impala and stalks toward the building, trusting Cas to catch up with him. The townspeople all turn to stare at the two of them as they make their way into the rec hall, leaving Dean no choice to realize—again—how ill prepared he and Cas are.

They don’t look _too_ bad, he supposes. Cas ditched his trench coat and refitted his suit—which is apparently a thing he always had the ability to do, thanks to the goddamn _magic_ that is his grace—to hang a bit better from his frame. And by ‘a bit better’ Dean of course means it looks _fucking phenomenal_ , but that’s beside the point. Dean himself is in one of his other fed suits, different from the one he had worn earlier in the day, and slightly higher quality. Then, to top each of their outfits off, Sam materialized from somewhere a pair of complementary red and green Christmas-y ties. Dean had initially objected, but since Cas had seemed to like the green one, Dean taken the plunge and tied the red one around his neck.

Some of these other people, though? Some of the guys are wearing _tuxes_ , and none of the women’s dresses are anything less than extravagant.

Dean’s anxiety only gets worse once they’re in the hall. Thankfully, though, Cas seems to sense this, and tucks his hand into the crook of Dean’s elbow. He’s casual about it, casual enough that none of the townspeople will think it strange—everyone thinks they’re a couple, after all—but it still sends Dean’s heart racing. He tries not to outwardly react as he leads the angel further into the room, forcing a smile into place to help their cover.

Sharon finds them before they’ve even made it halfway through the hall. She approaches Dean and Cas with a wide smile, a man Dean assumes to be her husband standing arm-in-arm with her. “Agent Mercury! I’m so glad you made it,” she cries. Her eyes settle on Cas, and her expression brightens further. “And who’s this? Someone _special_ , agent?”

Dean only just refrains from wincing. “Call me Dean,” he corrects, feeling the pseudonym only makes the situation worse. “And, uh… This is Cas. My… boyfriend.”

The word feels awkward and heavy when it leaves Dean’s tongue, but no one seems to notice before Cas steps forward, reaching to shake both Sharon and her husband’s hands. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says, his inflexion perhaps a touch too somber for an ordinary person.

Sharon, of course, is too pleased with the way things are turning out to care, or even probably notice. “Well, aren’t you two just the cutest!” she says loudly, drawing the attention of at least several other couples nearby. They all turn to stare in open curiosity at the newcomers. “I am just _so_ glad you were able to make it here tonight, both of you. And I think you’ll find that our town is very accepting of folks like you. We have a few gay couples of our own, you know. They’re around here somewhere—Todd and I can introduce you!”

Sharon’s words reverberate through Dean’s skull, and suddenly, he thinks he might throw up. Between the tight knot around his throat, the weight of the room’s stares, the hand on his elbow—it’s all too much for him to handle. He quickly extricates himself from Cas’ grasp and mumbles some excuse about needing to find the bathroom before darting off through the crowd toward what he can see is the rec hall’s back door.

_Folks like you._

He’s being ridiculous—he knows that. He and Cas are here _posing as a couple_ , for god’s sake. He has no right to go into a panic attack when someone comments on the sexuality he’s pretending to have. It’s not like they could know how much of an inner struggle that same subject causes him on a near-daily basis.

Growing up as the son of a highly conservative ex-marine, any and every feeling that might have implied he was anything less than a “manly man” was one he had to squash, or at the very least hide. And on the occasion that he didn’t? John would do his damnedest to ensure Dean never had a repeat occurrence.

Sure, he likes Cas, and sure, maybe he kind of likes Cas _like that_. But so what? It’s not reciprocated, and even if it were, he learned his lesson on _that_ front a long time ago. John may be dead and gone, but that doesn’t mean Dean’s gotten over the emotional trauma his father inflicted upon him. It doesn’t mean that Dean is comfortable with who he is, or how he feels.

Cas catches up to Dean just as he starts to push his way out the back door. The angel stops him with nothing more than a hand on his arm, his fingers wrapping around Dean’s wrist to hold him in place. Dean finds the contact oddly grounding, and part of him revels in the warmth of Cas’ skin on his own. Despite the gentleness of the touch, however, Cas’ expression is dark with barely-contained frustration. “What happened back there?” he demands, voice low to avoid being overheard. “I believe it was _you_ who said that we need to _blend in_.”

All of Dean’s personal insecurities fly out the window, leaving him feeling bone-weary and guilty to boot. Cas is right, of course. He usually is. “Sorry,” he mutters, dropping his head to avoid the angel’s all-seeing gaze. “It’s just… I don’t like this.”

Cas sighs, dropping his hand from Dean’s wrist. “I’m sorry that there was no better alternatives as to who accompanied you,” he bites out, “but if this find this cover so repugnant, perhaps you should have attended with the teenage girl.”

Dean winces. “Cas, that’s not what I—”

“Or if even that was so unacceptable,” Cas continues, gaining volume as he goes, “you could just as well have stayed out of this all together and let Sam and I handle it. Or do you truly want to leave this case unsolved for another twenty years? Please, Dean, if that is the case, let me know and we can leave two of these people to die.”

“Just listen to me!” Dean shouts back, finally having lost his cool. “I’m sorry I’m messed up inside sometimes, alright? But just because I have some issues, doesn’t mean it’s your fault, or that I want anyone to _die_ , so don’t you _dare_ say that.”

Cas narrows his eyes. “You’re not making any sense.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s not surprising.”

Suddenly there’s a giggle to their left, and when they both turn to look, it’s to find a teenage girl with braided hair and a long, pale green dress ogling them. There’s a white ascot tied around her throat, providing an odd compliment to the rest of her outfit. She giggles again once Dean and Cas’ eyes are on her, completely unashamed at having been caught. “You boys know the tradition, don’t you?” she asks.

Dean and Cas exchange a confused look, and Cas simply responds, “No.”

The girl makes an exasperated face. “When you’re under the mistletoe, you have to kiss! You kiss and you fall in love, those are the _rules_.”

“There’s no—”

The girl cuts off Dean’s protest by pointing a finger at the space above their heads, where, sure enough, a sprig of mistletoe wrapped in red ribbon had been hung.

Dean’s stomach drops at the sight. He hadn’t seen it there before, distracted by his internal meltdown as he was, but there is no denying the fact that he and Cas are directly beneath it. Does that mean that he should..?

He looks back at Cas, the angel already staring at him. Dean’s eyes automatically drop to Cas’ lips at the same time that he licks his own, both instinctive reactions to just the thought of kissing Cas. He _could_ do it, too—it’s tradition, right? He could do it, and thanks to the mistletoe, he could write it off later as a one-off thing. Just adhering to tradition. And from the look on Cas’ face, Dean doesn’t think he’d be denied just a single touch of their lips.

But then the second half of the girl’s words catch up to Dean, and when they do, they send him reeling. It hits too close to home, puts him right back into his previous, panicked state. He can’t do this, he _can’t_. Without waiting another moment, Dean spins on his heel and bursts through the door and out into the field that sits behind the rec hall. The girl lets out a sound of frustration and Cas calls his name, both sounds that Dean hardly catches over the ringing in his ears.

It’s started to snow in the time since they entered the gala. The flakes are large and wet, not substantive enough to do anything other than dissolve upon contact with the ground, but Dean can’t find it in himself to care what the weather chooses to do even if he tries as he marches back to the Impala.

He makes it almost halfway around the exterior of the building before Cas shows back up, the familiar rustling of wings marking his arrival. He stands directly in front of Dean, hands balled into fists at his sides and looking downright furious. Dean attempts to sidestep him, but the angel just repositions himself without even taking a step.

Dean practically growls in frustration. “Let me by, Cas.”

“No.”

Dean glares at a fixed point somewhere over Cas’ shoulder, unable to meet his eyes. “Why not?”

“Because I need to know what’s going on with you,” Cas retorts. “Or are we pretending it isn’t happening?”

“Cas,” Dean replies through grit teeth, still not looking directly at the angel, “I don’t want to have this conversation.”

“Well I do.” Even without making eye contact, Dean can feel the weight of Cas’ glare on him. Between heartbeats, though, that weight disappears, and Cas’ body goes rigid.

Unable to stop himself, Dean looks at him for an explanation. The angel is halfway turned away, his eyes searching the dark of the night that surrounds them. There are a number of lights protruding from the exterior of the recreation hall, and just then, the one above them begins to flicker.

“Cas—”

“It’s here.”

A few seconds pass in silence, and then the girl from the mistletoe incident emerges from the shadows, seeming to melt into existence straight out of the darkness itself. There’s no ascot, now, and in its place a very obvious red ring of rope burn. She stalks toward Dean and Cas, glaring between them. “Listen,” she says, “I told you the rules. I gave you a chance. Now why the _hell_ can no one understand how _easy_ this is?” Her voice rises in pitch, shaking with unrestrained power. “Under the mistletoe, you _kiss and fall in love_.” She then flicks her wrist in their direction, sending both Dean and Cas crashing to the ground, the latter being forced down by the impact of Dean’s body against his own.

Dean lands sprawled across Cas, and he scrambles quickly to his feet, hoping that the imperfect lighting hides his blush. He helps Cas up as well, mumbling, “Guess we found what our ghost wants.”

Cas gives him an unamused look before squaring off against the ghost girl, placing himself between her and Dean. He raises a hand in her direction as though to use his mojo against her, but the girl only laughs.

“Not going to happen,” she sing-songs. “Not until you follow the rules.”

She flicks her wrist again, only this time instead of aiming it at the two of them, she aims it at a place above their heads. Dean glances up in time to watch a thick, twisting vine sprout from the light post above them. It spirals downward until it is only a few feet away, at which point the end of it blooms into a perfectly formed sprig of mistletoe, complete with decorative red bow.

Dean sighs. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“I won’t tell you again,” the ghost snarls. “Follow the tradition, or I’ll punish you like I did the others. Like I punished Nick.”

Dean can only assume that _Nick_ was the dumbass who started this girl’s obsession once upon a time, no doubt by leaving her under the mistletoe without filling either half of the tradition she so fervently believes in.

Before Dean can try to talk his and Cas’ way out of this mess, Cas seems to formulate a plan of his own.

With no more warning than a muttered, “Fuck it,” Cas grabs Dean by the snow-damp lapels of his suit jacket and forcefully hauls him in to connect their lips. At first it’s just a firm press of their mouths, but once Dean’s brain goes through its necessary reboot process because _holy shit this is happening_ , all of his former reservations evaporate and the dam holding him back bursts. His hands settle on Cas’ hips and Dean kisses him with a passion, pouring all of his pent-up emotions into the angel through the movement of his lips. From the way Cas moves against him in return, Dean thinks he might just get it.

They kiss until Dean is out of breath. Cas, the angelic bastard, isn’t even close to being winded, but for the moment, Dean ignores the unfairness of that situation in favor of resting their foreheads together. He wants to bask, just for a second.

Behind them, the ghost girl sighs happily. “That wasn’t so hard, now was it?”

Cas turns his head slightly to acknowledge her, though he doesn’t move so much that it dislodges Dean. His voice sounds rougher than usual when he asks, “Are you satisfied now? Can you rest?”

The girl doesn’t verbally respond, but Dean doesn’t need to turn around to know that her presence has dissipated. That doesn’t stop him from looking to the angel in his arms for confirmation, satisfied only when Cas says, “She’s gone. Her purpose for remaining has been fulfilled, and her soul has moved on.”

“That’s good,” Dean says quietly. The longer he and Cas stand here, the more his self-doubt returns, until he drops his hands from Cas and tries to steps away. Cas doesn’t let him, though, still holding Dean’s lapels in a death grip as he is.

“Before,” he starts softly, “you said you didn’t like this. Why?”

“Cas, I really don’t…”

“Dean, please. I want to understand.”

Dean contemplates for a moment, and in the end, it’s the earnest confusion and sadness in the angel’s eyes that tugs the truth from him. “It’s not that I don’t like being here with you, or that I wish that I was with someone else. It’s that… I don’t like pretending.”

“I see,” Cas says slowly. He watches Dean closely when he asks, “And if it was not pretend?”

Dean takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the part of himself that continues to insist that he doesn’t get to have this. He hedges, “That might be better.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas whispers, and before Dean knows it, the angel’s lips are on him again. This kiss is different than the first one, softer and less urgent without the ghost’s presence egging it on. Dean responds just as softly, and it couldn’t possibly be more perfect.

Or, it could. They could be somewhere indoors, for one. They could be somewhere with a temperature above thirty-five, where their suits aren’t growing heavy with damp snowfall.

But hey—beggars can’t be choosers, right?

Unfortunately, acknowledging the cold that surrounds them is enough to burst Dean out of his blissful ignorance, and all at once he becomes aware of just how cold he actually is. His body begins to tremble against his will, prompting Cas to pull away in concern.

“Perhaps we should go inside,” Cas suggests with a warm smile. It quickly falters, though, and he continues with a more serious expression, “Unless you would rather return to the motel? I’m sure Sam will be pleased to know that the ghost has been taken care of.”

Dean is about to agree to the second option, but the answer catches on the tip of his tongue. Sam _had_ promised him time off after the case was finished. With that thought in mind, Dean forces down what he had been about to say and instead makes a bold move, taking Cas by the hand and pulling him along in the direction of the recreation hall’s backdoor. The angel raises an eyebrow that can’t be interpreted as anything other than teasing, to which Dean responds with a halfhearted shrug. “Perfectly good party right here, Cas. You don’t honestly expect me to pass up free food and drinks, do you?”

Cas’ smile returns. “We’re not pretending this time?”

“Not pretending.”

It’s almost Christmas, after all. Dean can’t feel guilty for treating himself every once in a while, especially during the holidays. And knowing that this is clearly something that Cas wants, too? Well. No amount of reprimanding from John in his past could ever convince Dean to deny his angel anymore.

Sam can wait till morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [tumblr!](http://thursdays-fallen-angel.tumblr.com)


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